Mementos
by iheartjackie
Summary: A stupid, short story in which shows that Jimmy likes to collect crap. 'Cause. Rated K for language.


Memento

Summary: A stupid, short story in which shows that Jimmy likes to collect crap. 'Cause. Rated K+ for lanague.

Disclaimer: If I owned this shit, I'd be getting PAID SON. PAID. MONEY. WHICH I COULD PAY BILLS WITH. THAT WOULD BE GREAT.

Author's Note: This started out as a part of a Halloween fic (which I still haven't finished) but got too long for the story, so it was cut out. Then words were added and this happened. It's a super short story with no point. Waht so evar. And it's not even very well written, just drones on and on and on (much like this note). I'd just thought I post it because I haven't posted anything in a while and this shit is done anyway so the fuck not, right?

* * *

Pack rat.

It was obvious, painfully so. You just had to peak into the perpetually ajar door and see all the superfluous paraphernalia that littered the walls. The room was practically papered with pictures and knickknacks and every available space held some sort of object or whatchamacallit. He could be some sort of hoarder, one of those people that they make shows about on the Discovery Channel, but no one would call him on it.

He was Jimmy Goddamn Hopkins after all.

But still Jimmy heard some snippets of conversation about his "junk" or "crap". He'd sort it out fairly quickly, though; nothing verbal, just a burning stare until the subject melted completely away from their minds. Nothing he owned was ever or could ever be called something so meaningless as "junk".

Everything from the pictures of the girls (and boys) who liked him from the dirty button-up polo shirt pinned on the wall had meaning; some objects were just things he picked up while he was dicking around, like the foam tombstone he stole during Halloween. (Now that was fun night, with the exception of the constant wedgy from his skeleton costume and _him _being there.) Then there were little trinkets he picked up from tasks, like the piece of that humongous Venus flytrap Dr. Slawter sent him to kill. (Oh man, Jimmy could have sworn he busted-up Ogilvie nose on his way out of the Preppies' house! Cartilage cave in and everything!) And then there were trophies. His favorites were always the clique leaders: Russell's polo shirt (for some reason, Russell took off his shirt after their fight; Jimmy had no idea why, but what the hell), a pair of boxing gloves from Derby's cheap fight, Johnny's leather jacket (it got ripped during their scuffle, so Jimmy scooped it up after he tossed it), a planet mobile from Earnest's observatory and Ted's letterman jacket (stole it from his locker, plain and simple).

Of course, there was one "boss" trophy he couldn't look at before he practically busted a nut. A Bullworth shield; it was on Crabblesnitch's desk when they came crashing through the skylight. Jimmy snatched it up before he left the office. It caught his eyes before of the tiny trail of blood he was positive was not his own, but _his_. ('Course then Jimmy would remind himself that Gary had a couple new scars, too, so he didn't get too mad.)

He wasn't sure why he did it but everywhere he had ever lived, even if it was only a few days, he'd start accumulating things.

Everything he displayed had a story, a background, a meaning.

A memory.

It wasn't just his own collection he could see memories in, he could see the memories in other people's room. Not just in the pictures and trophies, but in cracks and nicks and unidentifiable stains, in where people left their clothes or in little dents in the carpet where furniture once stood. Smells, too, like that one patch of carpet that smells like lavender or vanilla or rose petals because a little girl or boy snuck out their mother or grandmother's perfume and spilt it on the floor or when a tea cozy smells like cinnamon and sugar because its see a million apple pies in its life. Study curtains that smell like cherry tobacco and wooden porch swings that always smelt damp even when it's as dry as bone.

He didn't know why he liked these things; little details just seem to make a place…comfortable. Lived-in.

Homey.

Jimmy Hopkins was a sentimentalist after all.


End file.
